


A Blade to the Collarbone

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24504067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "They are smart, he will give them that, spreading themselves out around him, insuring he can’t maintain a clear view of all of them at once. They shuffled and side-stepped cautiously, staying just out of reach, nervous eyes glancing at one another, almost as though they are waiting for something. "Geralt runs into some trouble when a few of the locals decide they are less than keen on having a Witcher in the area.Good thing he can take care of himself... well, mostly at least.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 237





	1. Like a stab in the back.

He’s not sure if it’s the sound or the pain that first alerts him to the fact that there is a knife, stuck into his shoulder, buried in deep. He can tell without looking that it has landed in a less than opportune position, just low enough that it will surely be a struggle to remove it.

A blade that size, slick with blood. He could already envision the trouble it would take to pull it free, clean the wound, and Gods forbid, if it is big enough to need stitches…

He spins slowly round to face the man who threw it, half hoping his sharp and murderous glare will be enough to deter any further action.

A second throwing knife gets him in the arm, knocking him back slightly and tearing a heavy growl from his chest. That would be a no then. Wonderful.

At least this one is more… conveniently placed, he muses, tugging the blade free from his arm and tossing it aside.

His attacker is a thin man, face drawn, and just beginning to become tinged ever so slightly with fear as Geralt moves towards him.

He avoids the third knife thrown, sidestepping it as he advances quickly, pulling lose his sword, ready to end whatever petty squabble this is before it has the chance to grow.

Which is when the rest of them step out. They slid into view, scuttling out of their various hiding places along the street. It seemed his attacker has friends. Ah, shit.

There’s at least three more, he realises with a sinking realisation that this may not be the quick and easy event he was hoping for.

Two were brandishing what appeared to be meat cleavers, large, cruel looking blades, the third armed with what appeared to be a large hook. 

He hears a set of footsteps behind him. That makes five total. And it had been such a lovely day so far too.

They were smart, he will give them that, spreading themselves out around him, insuring he can’t maintain a clear view of all of them at once. They shuffled and side-stepped cautiously, staying just out of reach, nervous eyes glancing at one another, almost as though they are waiting for something. 

Then the big one with the hook nods, and, while his first friend with the throwing blades has mind enough to stay back, the rest advance all at once. Fuck. They were smart.

He parries one of the blades, ducking to the side to narrowly avoid the meat hook, another blade succeeding at grazing his arm. Fuck.

He makes a decision, shoves back against the man in front of him, hard enough to send him sprawling, head hitting pavement, far enough and disoriented enough to momentarily not be a problem.

He would have liked to continue, finish the man off, sadly the asshole with the hook has other ideas, swinging the damn thing directly at his face.

He avoids the hook, just for someone to get him round the head with… something. He thinks it may have been the flat edge of one of the blades. They may be smart, but their training was clearly… limited at best. Good. Perhaps there was still hope of ending this mess quickly after all.

Ears ringing he does his best to shake it off, managing to block the damn fucking hook with his sword when the man once again swings it at him, tries to wrench it out of the mans grip, to no avail.

He’s forced to release it to block another incoming swing, fuck. they may be untrained, but they were damned determined. He feels a blade hit his back, sinking in. Fuck. he wishes he had his armour, knows the thick leather would have absorbed such a blow. He snarls, twisting, shoves back the bastard in front of him, this one managing to stay on his feet, not that it matters, Geralt taking a swipe at him, sword easily slicing through flesh, intestines spilling free.

Hooks, as he has so affectionately nicknamed him, screams in rage and takes another swing at him, he blocks it easily enough, aware this leaves his back exposed to the other man. Tries to turn, yank Hooks around with him, keep them both in view.

As if that wasn’t enough… distantly, in the back of his mind he can hear the man he sent sprawling starting to get back up, apparently finally ready to join the party again. Fuck.

However, before that lovely gentleman gets the chance a new set of footsteps ring out behind him, a sixth attacker come to join in the fun, he wearily assumes, how wonderful.

Until he hears the rather irritated cry of, “right now just fuck off!” and the unmistakable sound of someone being hit over the head with something very very hard.

A risky glance behind him confirms it, Jaskier, currently seemingly attempting to beat a man to death with... his lute. _Wonderful._ As though he didn’t have enough to worry about already, he can now add, keeping a bard with below negative self preservation alive to the to-do list.

Fucking bullocks.

He doesn’t have time to get distracted by Jaskier now, narrowly sidestepping a swinging blade, his own sword still locked with the meat hook.

He tries to throw Hooks off, yank the fucking meat hook free, half surprised when he fails yet again. Apparently, this fucker had a grip of god damned steel.

There’s a sharp pain in his leg, a blade slicing through flesh. He snarls, twists round to see this unaccounted for attacker.

It was the first bastard, one with the throwing knives. He had clearly decided to come to his friends aid, slashing one of the short knives across the back of Geralt’s leg. The blade wasn’t designed for that, a small mercy, limiting the damage it did to an extent at least.

Gods. He doesn’t have the time, temperament or patience for this mess.

He ducks around another fucking swing of a blade, beginning to get really fucking sick of this, and tries one more time to yank the hook free of the man’s hands, failing at the task he instead uses his sword to yank the weapon, and by extension attacker, forward. Sends Hooks stumbling into his good friend with the throwing knives.

He has just turned to face the asshole with the blade when there’s a scream from behind them. Gods. Now what?

He doesn’t have the time to check, it didn’t sound like Jaskier at the very least.

He parries another fucking attempted blow, this time finally having the chance to return the favour, his blade piercing through the delicate flesh of the man’s throat with ease.

Another scream. He turns in time to see the bard… biting his opponent’s ear off. How… poetic.

Not that he has time to watch, not before that fucking meat hook is back, once again swinging at his face.

He blocks it once again with his sword, figures if using it to leverage the man around like a rag doll worked last time… hey, why not give it another go.

This time he uses the momentum of the swing to slam the _gentleman_ into the closest wall, the blow proving finally enough to make him let go of the damn hook.

Geralt tosses it away, not bothering to look were it lands, drives his blade deep into the man’s chest, watching the light leave his eyes.

Another fucking scream. He turns yet again, in time to catch the bastard with the throwing knives turn heel and try to run.

He catches up easily enough, a sword through the back ending any hope the man had of escaping unharmed.

He takes a moment, breathes. 

Finally thinks to yank Jaskier off the last of their attackers, the man decidedly too near death to worry about at this point.

“That’s right and see you don’t come back!”

He groans, tossing the clearly now worked up bard over his shoulder, “he’s as good as dead Jask.”

“Yes… well, exactly!”

He really doesn’t have time for this, setting off towards the tavern, it was time to go before any more trouble decided to manifest itself, gods only forbid if someone had seen the fight and decided to alert the authorities.

No. it was definitely time to go. And quickly.

But of course the brief moment of calm is quickly interrupted by Jaskier’s voice, “Geralt.”

He hums, only half listening, rather focused on getting them out of there, and far from the mood for conversation.

“Now I don’t mean to alarm you…”

“What is it Jaskier?”

“There appears to be a knife in your back.”

Ah, dammit. He knew he had forgotten about something.


	2. A moment to indulge

The moment the bard pointed it out he became uncomfortably aware of it, the stiff intrusion, buried deep within his shoulder, metal scraping against bone… Fuck.

He was half surprised it hadn’t just come lose in the fight, worked itself free already.

Evidently though it had not. Evidently it would require a helping hand.

Good thing he had one available then.

“Pull it out.”

“Pull- here? Now??”

“Yes.” He reasons it will only get knocked about even more otherwise, and the thought of getting on a horse, with it still in there, shifting… “Here. Now. Pull it out.”

Jaskier stutters, gasps in mock horror, but relents, grasping the handle, slick with blood, and with more work than he is sure the bard would want to admit to, manages to pull it free, dropping it onto the ground below. It clatters against the cobblestones, bouncing off and away, finally free. Good.

Nothing more to worry about.

“Oooh Geralt that is a _lot_ of blood.”

“It’s fine.” It is. Or it will be. He’s had worse. He possibly has worse right now, the other gash in his back, not to mention his leg has begun to ache ever so slightly, pain pulsing with each step.

But its fine. He’s sure of it.

Just like the hole in his shoulder is fine. So long as he just doesn’t in anyway think about it. acknowledge its existence at all. He’s already forgotten its there once, it will be fine.

That, of course is the moment Jaskier apparently decides to press his entire palm very hard against the wound.

He stumbles, curses, almost drops the bard on his ass in the street. Growls out a furious, “Jaskier!”

“oh don’t ‘Jaskier’ me- I’m applying presser!” 

“For fucks sake Jaskier!”

“I. Am. Helping.”

He drops the bard. Sends him sprawling. Jaskier landing with an insulted grunt.

The bard climbs to his feet, blood clearly once again boiling, “oh you- bloody oaf, I was helping!”

“Were you now? How? By pressing your filthy hand against my open wound?”

Jaskier splutters, dusting himself of, clearly trying to craft some annoyingly clever or complicated retort.

There is a cry, one of shock and horror, a little way down the street. Quickly followed by a call for guards. It seems someone had found the bodies. And here they were, stood in the street, covered in blood.

Geralt’s dark clothes would at least hide it somewhat, the deep red next to invisible against the black fabric.

But Jaskier… there was no way anyone was missing the vibrant red streaks now staining his Doublet and undershirt.

It was time to go.

Quickly.

Thankfully for once the bard seemed to have had the same idea, eyes widening nervously at the sound, flicking back to stare up the way they came while edging in the opposite direction.

Geralt follows his gaze. Thankfully there was no one visibly coming after them. ~~Yet.~~

Another, discomforting cry has the bard all but stumbling over his feet in an effort to get away, calling back for him with a, “Geralt, time to go!”

He follows, quickly overtaking the bard at a brisk walk, pushing his way through the small gathering crowd, people drawn by the cries, wanting to see what happens. Trusting Jaskier to somehow keep up and follow.

Roach is where he left her, tied up outside a local tavern, not yet moved to a stable and settled for the evening as he hadn’t been sure if they would be staying. A decision clearly now made for them.

He unties her, swings up easily into the saddle, pausing, unsure if the current situation warranted pulling Jaskier up behind him. he would prefer not too, the stress of it was never good for Roach, would prefer if they could just walk out of there as they normally would, just slightly more direct and with a little more speed than was common.

A cry could be heard, going up throughout the crowd, calls of “murder!” and “monster!”

Ah. That decision also made then. He reaches down an arm for Jaskier, hiding the wince when the arm twinges, wounds in his shoulder both tugging awkwardly, as Jaskier accepts it.

He gets them out, navigating the winding streets at a quick trot, Jaskier grumbling at the uncomfortable choice of step, despite acknowledging the need to leave quickly.

He pushes Roach into a canter once they are out of the crowd, finally free of the town, but not yet far enough to confirm their safety. Both Jaskier and his bloody shoulder seem grateful for the smoother step.

Jaskier taking advantage of it to surreptitiously try and continue applying pressure to the worst of Geralt’s wounds, slowly sliding a hand from around Geralt’s waist and casually resting it against his back.

“Jaskier,” he snaps, “hold on.” He doesn’t have time to stop and scrape the bard off the road if this idiot winds up taking a tumble trying to help him.

Jaskier whines irritably, patting Geralt’s wound. “It’s bleeding!” “

It’s fine.”

The bard grumbles but relents, shifts the arm back round to hold on tight. “It’s still bleeding” he hears the bard grumbling. “It’s fine. Just leave it.”

It’s possibly not fine. It probably shouldn’t still be bleeding so much. It almost definitely would need stitches. Fuck.

He pushes Roach on as quick as he dares, until the town is not even a spec on the horizon, finally slowing Roach and guiding her from the main path when he hears running water. They happen upon a small stream, the water clear and fast moving. As good as any he figures, pulling them to a halt.

Jaskier scrambles down first, already half stripped before he hits the ground, desperate to soak the expensive cloth before the blood set, ruining it for good.

He follows at a more leisurely pace, first making sure Roach is settled, removing a few of their bags in hopes of somewhat making up for the extra weight she spent the last few hours carrying. Sets her grazing nearby. Only then does he let himself tend to his own needs.

He tugs off the now somewhat ruined shirt, dropping it beside the stream, settling down to tend to his wounds. He lets cool water run over the gashes and scrapes on his arms, whisking away dirt and blood alike, before turning his attention to the two prominent wounds on his back.

Jaskier comes bounding over before he has much of a chance to struggle, batting away hands and setting to work cleaning the cuts. The bards fingers are icy from the time spent scrubbing his own clothes. They dance across his back, pressing into each knot and pressure point, agonising and soothing all at once.

The bard scrubs off the dried blood, starting their bleeding anew. He hears the bard hum, press a gentle hand to his back, studying his wounds. “I think they may need stitches.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t protest, knows Jaskier is likely right.

He hears Jaskier scramble away to gather up the necessary supplies, He sighs, breathes deep, centres himself.

He’s never enjoyed letting others stitch his wounds, always preferring to do it himself. Something about the vulnerability of it... letting someone else hurt you to help... it always felt like too much.

Too intimate. Better, just to do it himself.

But he trusts Jaskier, enough to know the man wont fuck it up.

Jaskier settled back down beside him, tries to thread the needle, cursing quietly when he misses. Geralt snorts, watching wearily out of the corner of his eye as Jaskier finally succeeds.

Jaskier is quick, precise. He knows better than to take his time, waste too much effort in trying to be gentle. That’s not what Geralt wants. Geralt wants it done quickly, easily. No fuss, no mess. So that is what the bard does.

Jaskier hums once finished, rubs a gentle thumb across the ends of his work, “all done.”

He rolls his shoulders, feeling the tight tug of new stitches. Good.

He shifts round to face Jaskier, notices for the first time the bard’s lip is split. brow creasing, hand reaching up to press a gentle thumb against the wound, he murmurs softly, “your hurt.”

Jaskier snorts at the concern in Geralt’s voice, “barely, bastard only managed to get a few hits in before I dealt with him.”

Geralt sighs, hand still cupping Jaskier’s face. Knows this is a losing battle but decides to enter it anyway, “You didn’t have to you know, I could have dealt with it.”

Jaskier snorts, nose crinkling, but doesn’t pull back from the touch just yet, “what? and let you have all the fun?”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

At this the bard does bat at him in playful annoyance, before shaking his head and answering, “nothing that’ll do any worse than bruise, really, I’m fine Geralt.”

Geralt hums, lets his thumb brush against the bard’s lips once more lingering there for a moment before he drops the hand.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoves Geralt with an enduring, “sap, honestly, you took much more of a beating than I did.”

“I’ll heal.”

“and so will I, you big softy. Now,” he points at the gash on Geralt’s arm, “that one, stitches or no?”

Geralt tilts his head, considering. It’s long, but not deep, it should heal on its own. Shakes his head, no need for more stitches.

Jaskier eyes the wound cautiously, as though not fully trusting Geralt’s judgement, but puts the needle away all the same.

The bard tugs lose bandages next, swatting away Geralt’s hand when the Witcher reaches to take them from him.

“I can do it, Jask.”

“Shhh, I’m helping.”

He lets out a half chuckle. Relents, offering up his arm, let Jaskier feel important if that’s what he wants, its no great pain to him.

The bard is gentle with this, gentler than he would have been to himself. Taking his time in carefully wrapping the clean fabric around Geralt’s wounds.

And Geralt lets him, its… nice, the cool soft hands, brushing against his still flushed and heated skin.

Lets himself relax, lean into the touch.

Jaskier chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt’s arm after he finishes pinning the bandage in place.

Geralt hums comfortably at the touch, catching Jaskier’s eye, sharing a soft, private smile. 

Watches the man stand, pausing just for a moment to press an equally chaste kiss to Geralt's lips.

They rest there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, eyes dropping closed, sharing a breath.

He considers grabbing hold of Jaskier, pulling him down, into his lap, into a deeper kiss, tipping them back, into the bright green grass, feel the press of skin against skin…

But he doesn’t. Not here. Not now.

He lets Jaskier pull back, busy himself tidying away their supplies.

Because for now that is enough.

There will be other chances to indulge, other quiet moments.

For now, this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say, 'comfort'? get ur cheesy emotional softness here, gotta balance out the whump somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> I've beaten up Jaskier so many times... it's only fair i beat up Geralt on occasion as well.


End file.
